Those mounds out in the feed lots, often decorated with a steer on top.
What, the workers no longer make those piles?
Come to think, I haven’t seen the mounds or the lots for a long time. I’ll make it a point to look next time I go through there.
I seem to remember some environmental problem being repotrted in the news some time ago.
I don’t quite know why yet, but I think this is the best thing I’ve ever heard.
I like cows, too.
Oh, those. I assume they’re the source for the processed manure my parents used to dump in hills in our backyard for fertilizer, and then we kids would play on them. :eek:
Yeah, that’s it. City money. 
I like cows. I didn’t see very many when I was growing up in Worcester. When I moved to western MA, there was a cow farm right down the street from my house. I could smell them but I could never see them though.
Here in the frozen north of New York, there are cows all over the friggen place. Seriously. Imagine a bank. Across the street is a dentist, a gas station, an electrologist, and a masseuse. Behind the bank is Wal Mart and Sam’s Club. Right in the middle of all of this, is a cow pasture. I don’t even know where the farm is. It’s just a pasture. With cows. On a main road, right behind Wal Mart.
It just seems strange to me.
That’s BLOLgna™, the FUNNY lunch meat for the Information Age! Now with extra bubblegum in every slice.
I thought cows were cute, until I saw them close whilst frolicking across the south of England. Then I discovered they are actually evil. And stupid. Their big eyes are full of evil and stupid. I kept my distance. Not that the sheep were any better.
Hawksgirl beat me to it, but yeah. All cattle eventually end up as beef.
In meat production breeds, both boys and girls go, with the boys being more frequent because you don’t have to keep as many of them as the girls to spawn the next generation.
In dairy breeds, almost all of the boy calves go for meat when they are old enough. Though, because they have not been selected to produce muscle, their meat is of lower quality, so it ends up in low grade protein sources like dog food, gelatin, or protein additives for the diets of other, non-cattle animals. We haven’t fed back ruminants to ruminants ever since the discovery of Mad Cow disease. The dairy type girls are kept and breed to produce milk (small point that many don’t realize: Cows have to have a baby before they will lactate). On average, they stick around the for about 3 lactations, though it’s not uncommon to have one 7 or 8 year old girl.
So, for clarity Mangeorge, large farms don’t always sell the girl for meat after they go dry from their first pregnancy. Though they might if she gets sick or hurt or for whatever reason isn’t profitable.
<soap box> If you insist on buying milk from antibiotic free herds, then you are including any antibiotic that might be used to treat an infection. So, on antibiotic free dairies, cows with an infected cut on their hoof are basically doomed. </soapbox>
I have a friend who is one of 4 brothers who operate a fairly large family dairy operation (200-300 milking cows). Visiting there once, I noted that they had a similar attitude toward their cows. They knew each one, called them by name (they each wore an ear tag with their name and herd number on it), and knew details about the whims of them (this cow insisted in being in the first milking stall, this one had to be to the left of her sister when milked, etc.).
I asked him why they apparently indulged their cows so much, and he said that you had to actually like cows to be in this business – otherwise you could get an easier 9-to-5 job in a nice clean office in town. You like cows, so you treat them right. His brother also added that it keeps them contented, and contented cows give more milk. So a real financial reason to treat them right.
But that never stopped them from shipping the cows off to slaughter when they reached the end of their milking career.
I don’t know if the huge factory farms operate the same way. as this family-owned operation.
I do like cows.
I’m not a city slicker, but no farm girl either, so I was pleased when last year I got to go to a friend of my mother’s to meet some cows. They actually make me a little nervous up close–there was one in the pen who was feeling pretty aggressive so I spent a lot of time hiding behind poles.
The coolest part – I got to see a cow give birth. They had to tie chains to the hooves of the calf and pull it out. What amazed me is how immediately it got up and started hobbling around after its birth–and it was freaking adorable of course.
I have the same sort of relationship with cows that I have with fish.
taps on glass ‘‘Hi fishy! I love you!’’
taps fork on plate ‘‘Mmmm… thanks, fishy!’’
I honestly can’t tell you what makes me happier – talking to the cows or eating the cows.
That’s kind of wrong, isn’t it?
How did you discover this? Did you discover their evil plan to rule the Earth and then realize the plan was stupid?
That, my friend, is “bovolexia” and I too have it. It’s a never ending source of amusement for my hubby or anyone else who’s in the car with me.
My grandparents had cows on their farm as well as their horses and I loved being around them. I still like cows, esp. the miniature Jerseys I’ve seen at the state fair in the past.
[mooooo]
I like cows as sources of meat and milk and leather and other useful things.
I like cows in the distance as “set dressing” out in the world.
I like Highlanders, fuzziest of cattle, because they’re adorable, but everything I’ve heard about them has lead to the conclusion that I don’t want to deal with them. It was nice having them across the barn aisle from my aunt’s cattle at the county fair this year, though.
My family has cattle- beef cattle; mostly Angus overall though at my house it’s mostly Shorthorns. I like my family’s cattle when they aren’t kicking my brother, demanding popcorn- they seem to think we can make it appear, when really it takes my brother bringing it home from work, or running into me. (Okay, so that was a calf, but one she weighed at least 400 pounds!) Or yelling at trees. Yelling at trees gets old fast. (Stella especially thinks that if she keeps yelling, the apples will fall.)
But there are a few of our cows that get exemptions: I ALWAYS love Patty and her daughter Eleanor, who are named after awesome people (Patty Murray and Eleanor Roosevelt) AND they’re “blue” and “pink” respectively. Patty is a Angus/Shorthorn cross, so she’s blue roan; Eleanor’s father was full Shorthorn and she’s red roan.
Warning! Warning! You are now approaching info-dump!
I anthropomorphize the cows to a pretty strong degree, partly because I do that with most animals and inanimate objects, mostly because I’m so invested in their names. I felt betrayed this year; I missed calving season because I was away at university and my mom only named one calf!
Info-dump is now reached!
She has systems for naming them, they do get names*. It doesn’t apply to all of the cattle at my house**, but for the most part, there are naming patterns: there are political names (Patty), puns (Picabo Street of Dreams), Irish names (Tara and Siobhan; from Sue, my mom’s very first Shorthorn who came from Ireland), “negative” names (Nilla and Narry; sometimes just n-names as well; Nilla had twins Nettie and Nelly***), names related to magic (Amulet), sky names (Stella Luna was named after the bat, but now her calves get names like Azura), two syllable names that would not be out of place in Gilbert and Sullivan (Yum Yum), and plant names (Holly).
Some years there are other trends- Willow and Tara (Plants and Irish sets, but really Buffy names) were best friends. Strider and Boromir were also best friends, since they were a month older than the other calves that year. Their contemporaries included Legolas, Arwen, and Eowyn. We’re nerds, what can I say?
Outside the system, calf names usually fit with their mom- Nelly had Bird (for three reasons: the song, a white bird-shaped mark on her head, and she loved to chase birds), Angelica had Dil, and Josefina (whose, along with Nan, is of the age when I named them all after American Girl characters) had a calf with a name that meant “ruffled” in Spanish, because that’s what her hair looked like- a ruffled skirt over a white petticoat. Don’t ask me what it was- we just called her Enya for short.
Sometimes their names have totally different reasons: Theodora was named after the saint; her half/foster brother Duncan was a sort of a joke on Isadora Duncan. (They were half-siblings through the bull; Theo’s mother died and she was fostered on Duncan’s mother.) Fred was an incredibly difficult birth- the vet had to use the chains, I’m told- and the first thing that touched him was a Fred Flintstone beach towel to dry him off. (Turns out that if you have a difficult calving process in the corral near the road, the roofers across the street will watch it like a TV drama and applaud at the end! I wasn’t there, but that’s what my mom claims to have happened.)
You are now leaving info-dump territory. Proceed as usual. Be cautious near footnotes.
One page one, Pullet said that all cattle end up as beef- but that’s not exactly true, outside of large farms. Hermione the cow, who was before my time, is buried up in our orchard field, and I know that at least two other cattle were buried instead of sold for meat, within the past five years. One because absolutely had to (died while we were away; not discovered until the corpse was bloated, thank god for the digging arm on the back hoe!), one for more emotional reasons- one of my aunt’s favorite but super ancient cows- if I’m remembering correctly, the cow was 21 when she was euthanized.
On a completely different hand and indeed another arm entirely: miniature cows sort of scare me.
*In my experience, she’s more likely to name pure-bred Shorthorns and females, since they are more likely to stick around.
**I asked my mom for a list. The only two cattle on it that don’t confrom to the groups are Pattycake, who was named by my aunt, and Anjelica, who was named after her pony-tail horns and bossy attitude.
***Funny thing about Nelly. When she was young, her mother Nilla forgot she had two calves and we had to find Nelly- she was in some blackberry bushes- and reintroduce them. Now, whenever my mom is listing the cattle, she forgets Nelly.
When I was little one of our cows, Belle Starr, died giving birth. We raised her daughter, Delilah, literally from Day One; it was cold so we actually brought her to our house and kept her in the garage, and my mother/brother/sister/and I took turns giving her bottles (does anybody else have that really visceral memory smell of calf formula?) and keeping her warm.
She was gentle as a puppy, but the phrase “they grow up so fast” seems custom made for calves. One of my favorite memories is of the day Delilah “went exploring” when the garage door was left propped open- she came into the kitchen, into the den, looked around- all of us sat around watching TV and turned to see Delilah, then about half grown- all of us laughing but fascinated at her fascination- then she took a crap on the floor, turned around, went back to the garage, and all of us fell apart laughing. We didn’t even mind cleaning the cowshit off the floor.
Of course we knew that she was never going to be sold for meat by the time she was a few days old, but that was a sign that “it’s probably time”. For years and years when my father would drive his car (a Cadillac Calais with the trunk lid removed because he wouldn’t drive a pickup) filled with feed into the pasture most of the cows would run in every direction, and Delilah would walk up to the car and nuzzle. My father was a big man- Orson Welles meets 'Fred Gwynne from My Cousin Vinnie- and not exactly affectionate by nature, but it was always somehow heartwarming to see him hug Delilah.
AH, bovine memories. (Though to be honest, I’m more of a goat person.)
To others who grew up on farms: did you also label your meat with the name of the animal (e.g. Barney-Sirloin-'79)? Our city relatives thought this was morbid but we found it practical- we knew who tasted better, so when company you don’t like comes you give them Casey hamburger from the kitchen freeze, but when my sister announced that a super important boyfriend and his mom were coming that’s when you dig out some vintage Winnie T-bones from the deep freeze out back.
(PS- We didn’t butcher our own animals but sold them to a butcher who as part of the price gave us X pounds of meat [had to watch him though to make sure he didn’t switch meat on you]; for those who didn’t grow up on farms, you wouldn’t believe how much hamburger is made from a single cow.)
The smell of milk replacer is probably the most visceral scent memory I have- more so even than my mother’s perfume or the smell of roast beef. That stuff was weird. The weird thing is that I can’t remember the name of the calf that I fed it to the most. The second most fed, and most noticeable, was Hickory, who I mentioned in my last post. He was born prematurely, and so small that he couldn’t reach his mother’s udder. His first bottle was actually an old Corona bottle with a slightly modified goat-feeding nipple. He lived in my aunt’s basement, but he was really well behaved. The only cow that has ever been inside my house was Theodora, who spent a day in the bathroom. Luckily Duncan was born the next day and we got her on to Duncan’s mom, or else she’d have been in there longer.
The only things our wrapped meat says is things like “SIRLOIN” and “NOT FOR SALE”- so they don’t accidentally sell it at the meat services, I suppose.
The amount of hamburger you get really depends on what else you want- if you’re looking for more pot roasts and stew meat, there’s not as much left for burger.
AFAIK, my mother’s mother never did that.
I know that because when they were sitting down to a liver, one night, my mother is reported to have asked whether it was Trouble’s liver, or not. And everyone had to guess.
(Trouble was the goat my mother and uncle had more or less adopted as a pet. Up until the day that the butcher came to deal with the livestock he’d always been meant for the table, but the kids made such a stink, my grandfather is reported to have changed his mind, and granted Trouble a reprieve.
What happened next is a matter of some controversy. Per my mother, she believes my grandfather told her and her brother that Trouble would be off the list for the butchers. My grandfather claimed, in a retelling of the story, when it was just he and I, that Trouble followed him up to the barn where the butchering was being done, and by the time that my grandfather had realized that Trouble was no longer following him, while he was looking for the head of the butchering team, it was too late to save him.)
My mother, who loves liver, chose not to partake of the main course that night, because no one could say, for certain, that it wasn’t Trouble’s liver.
I’m sure she’d also agree with you, Sampiro about the suitability of goats for affection.
Ah fond memories of the few years I worked on an Angus farm. Didn’t pay that well but once a year I got to pick out my own steer for the meat. Nothing like writing your name on the side of one with a lipstick like crayon and then delivering it to the processor yourself.
Is there any other animal that is loved so much by both those who revere it and those who consume it - at the same time?
Pigs?
I’m not sure if anyone “reveres” them, but they’re much more popular in children’s stories and movies than cows are, in addition to being delicious.
They smell worse than cows, even if you’re cleaning out their pens regularly, and are perfectly willing to devour you if given the chance, but people love them anyway.